Carry Me Home
by MP brennan
Summary: Five things Admiral Adama said to Felix Gaeta and one time when he said nothing at all.
1. The Bucket

_Galactica's _corridors were a maze. After less than five minutes aboard, Felix Gaeta had already lost his bearings entirely. He'd studied the layout of Battlestars, of course, but it had never occurred to him to memorize the blueprints of the most antiquated model in the fleet. The _Galactica _was the last of her kind, and in his darkest nightmares he never imagined he would end up here.

He hiked his duffel higher on his shoulder and struggled to keep up with his tour guide—a slim, dark-skinned petty officer. The PO was speaking, her light voice carrying despite the bustle of the crowded corridor.

"This deck is pretty much officer central; we lowly underlings are housed two decks down. _Galactica _is smaller than the newer Battlestars, so you can pretty much give up any dreams of fancy accommodations. The commander and the XO each have their own quarters. Everyone else gets a bunk in one of the duty lockers—even the CAG and the LSO."

A few of the enlisted men paused to salute Felix. He returned the gesture awkwardly. As the men moved off, Felix resisted the urge to tug at the collar of his new uniform; the cloth was still stiff enough to cut into his neck.

They had reached a series of hatches, all identical with the word "OFFICERS" stamped across them in chipped white paint. Felix's guide—What was her name? Duane? Dalloway?—Petty Officer Something-or-other pointed to each hatch in turn. "These two are for pilots. Might want to give them a wide berth; Viper jocks don't like CIC staffers intruding on their territory, and they're not exactly subtle. XO is down the hall. Give him an even wider berth. Then, that one on your left is for the support staff. Our LSO, Captain Yarrington bunks there. And here is the locker for CIC officers. Your bunk is the third one down on the left-hand side. Feel free to dump your stuff, LT." Petty Officer Whats-her-name pushed the hatch open and stood aside.

Felix poked his head in with some trepidation. The room was long and narrow, lit by flickering fluorescents. A metal table dominated the center of the chamber while three walls were lined with lockers and curtained bunks. Felix took a deep breath. These were better digs that he'd had in basic training, but not by much. He dropped his bag onto the bunk the woman had indicated and collapsed with a sigh into one of the metal chairs. He wondered for the millionth time just who he'd pissed off in War College to get himself assigned to this hunk of metal. His classmates hadn't quite believed it when he told them; many had outright laughed. They found the idea of Gaeta, the perfectionist, the kiss-ass, the two-shoes, being assigned to a veritable flying museum under a relic of a commander to be highly amusing.

Of course, even _Galactica's _reputation had not prepared Gaeta for actually seeing the ship. Ever since his Raptor had landed—via hands-on approach—it had been like stepping back in time. He judged most of the computers he'd seen to be about twenty years old, and they could very well be the most modern conveniences on board. Where had he gone wrong? How could he hope to advance as a science officer when none of the modern technologies were available? Felix lowered his head to his hands and groaned aloud.

His head snapped back up at the sound of a soft rap. The slim petty officer had poked her head in and knocked on the doorframe, a slight smile on her face. "Sorry to interrupt, lieutenant, but you probably don't want to keep the Old Man waiting."

Gaeta's self-pity vanished in a flash of embarrassment. He sprang to his feet, trying to hide a slight blush. "Of course. But, please, call me Felix."

"Only if you call me Dee." The woman flashed him a dazzling smile before turning to head back down the corridor. Felix hurried to follow. _Dee . . . _Well, that didn't help with the Duane-vs.-Dalloway dilemma, but it helped to have something to call her.

_Pay attention, Felix, _he ordered himself sternly, _if you can't remember a name for five minutes there's not much hope for you as an officer. Even here._ He forced himself to listen closely to every word Dee was saying while simultaneously memorizing the route they followed. The mental discipline went a long way towards burying the resentment he'd fought since receiving his orders two weeks previously.

Three rights, two lefts, a center branch, and a stairwell later, they reached the Combat Information Center. Dee pushed the hatch open with the easy familiarity that came from months of service. Felix Gaeta straightened his back, wiped his face of emotion, and followed at almost a parade march.

The CIC was _huge_. Studying blueprints, participating in War College simulations, and even a brief stint aboard a training Battlestar had not prepared Felix for the scope of the amphitheater-like chamber. Dozens of officers and NCO's sat at tiered consoles, their faces dimly lit by glowing monitors. Two men who could only be the commander and the executive officer stood at a central table, their backs to Gaeta. Felix took a deep breath. For better or for worse, his first actions as an active Colonial officer would take place in this room.

He reached desperately in his memory for the dossiers he'd received. Felix was almost as bad with faces as he was with names, but he was fairly certain that Commander Adama had hair, which made the man on the left the more likely candidate. Gaeta strode up to this man and gave a sharp salute. "Lieutenant Felix Gaeta reporting as ordered, sir."

The older officer turned and returned the salute. Gaeta was immensely relieved to see that this man did, in fact, wear the rank insignia of a Commander. Adama's salute was not as stiff as the War College instructors always made it look, but it was crisp. The gesture spoke of a man who had spent the majority of his life giving and receiving such salutes. Felix immediately felt more at ease. The Commander extended his hand for the Lieutenant to shake. Felix took the opportunity to study the other man. Adama's face looked like it had been whittled out of knotted wood by someone with very little skill. Gaeta wondered how many of the innumerable lines on his face were old scars. He could see why his old classmates had termed Adama "the relic."

And yet . . . the Commander's keen blue eyes studied Felix from behind wire-rim glasses. The Lieutenant knew in an instant that the mind behind those eyes was equally sharp. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Gaeta." The gravelly monotone fit the grizzled face perfectly. "My executive officer, Colonel Tigh," he nudged the officer beside him and the other man turned, the light from the monitors gleaming off of his bald pate and narrowed eyes. Felix saluted the Colonel sharply and held the salute while Tigh looked him up like a sadistic drill sergeant with a new recruit. After what felt like an eternity, the XO returned the salute, and Felix struggled to keep the relief out of his face.

Adama's graven face did not change, but Felix could swear he saw his eyes twinkle in amusement. The Commander gestured to the nearest console. "Your station, Mr. Gaeta."

"Thank you, sir." When he reached the workstation, though, Felix had to stifle an audible gasp of dismay. Yes, his station had a keyboard, and DRADIS screens looked pretty much the same everywhere, but the resemblance between the _Galactica _tactical station and the one he had trained on pretty much ended at that. Instead of the familiar touch screen computer system with dozens of menus and programs, this station was apparently controlled by a dizzying array of unlabelled knobs and dials, resembling a century-old radio. It had taken Felix the better part of two years to master the modern DRADIS system. Now, that knowledge was apparently worthless and he would have to explain to his commander why he had never studied the _Galactica's _antiquated system.

Adama must have guessed some or all of Gaeta's line of thought. "Petty Officer Dualla," he growled.

Dee looked up. "Sir?"

"See to it that Lieutenant Gaeta gets copies of the appropriate manuals."

"Right away, sir."

Felix watched her retreating back. _Dualla, _some distant corner of his mind noted with detachment, _not Duane, not Dalloway. Dualla. _Summoning his nerves, Felix sat stiffly at his station and tried desperately to look like he knew what he was doing.

Commander Adama stepped close behind him. "I'm well aware that the _Galactica _is no longer on the syllabus, Lieutenant." His voice was almost a snarl, but Felix was getting the impression that Adama sounded that way even when he was perfectly happy. "You'll have a few days of light duty with which to familiarize yourself with the equipment."

Felix wetted his lips nervously. "Thank you, sir."

Adama leaned close and rested one hand on the tactical console. He kept his voice low. "Forget everything you've heard about this ship, Lieutenant; the _Galactica _is not a dumping ground for dead-end officers. This ship is three years away from decommission, so for three more years she'll carry out the same duties as any other Battlestar, but without the crutch of networked systems. It takes a smart, disciplined crew to keep up with this ship. I need to know that I can depend on you, Mr. Gaeta."

Felix swallowed. "I'll do my best, sir."

"Then you'll do fine." Adama straightened and raised his voice. "XO has the deck." The Commander strode out of the CIC, passing Dualla who was returning with several binders in her arms.

Felix accepted the manuals from Dee with a murmured word of thanks. Colonel Tigh gave him one last piercing not-quite-glare before returning his attention to the reports laid out in front of him.

Felix leaned back in his chair, strangely buoyed by the Commander's subtle words of encouragement. Yes, the _Galactica _was an old creaky bucket of bolts, but she was a Battlestar and he was an officer in her CIC, just like he'd always dreamed. Suppressing a slight smile, he flipped open the first tech manual and began to read.

_TBC_


	2. The Mudball

There was a kind of festival atmosphere aboard the _Galactica _as the first of the Raptor survey teams prepared to escort settlers to the surface of New Caprica. Those who had been to the surface brought back souvenirs—sea shells, leaves, strange flowers, and more. Those who hadn't yet seen the planet clustered around the lucky surveyors, pestering them for stories.

Quite a few election after-parties were still going on. Baltar's supporters were a minority among the military, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in volume. Among these groups, Felix enjoyed the rare privilege of a hero's welcome. Somehow, word of what he had done in stopping the election fraud had spread through the ship like a brushfire. As Felix walked through the halls, smatterings of applause rang out. Complete strangers greeted him with hearty slaps on the back, gifts of cigars and bottles of ambrosia, endless rounds of drinks.

Felix turned down what he could of the gifts and ducked out of the spotlight as much as possible—sometimes literally. Quite apart from feeling self-conscious, he had a hunch that it might not be such a good idea to keep reminding people that an election had nearly been stolen under their very noses, especially since Admiral Adama had declined to investigate. Adama's reluctance told Gaeta two things: one, that whoever had orchestrated the fraud was _very _highly placed in the military and, two that the Admiral didn't completely disagree with the actions of the perpetrator. It seemed Felix's suspicions about Colonel Tigh had been right on the mark.

Adama's mistrust—his _hatred, _even—of Baltar made no sense, no matter how Felix considered it. The Admiral himself had admitted how important the doctor's research was to the survival of the fleet. His work with the map from Kobol, with the Cylon prisoners, the Cylon base on the tylium asteroid—gods, if it weren't for Gaius Baltar they all would have been marooned in the black months ago.

And yet, Adama treated the new president with none of the easy grace that usually marked his interactions with Former President Roslin. For Gaius Baltar, the Old Man had . . . _contempt._ Felix shied away from the word, even in his own mind. It felt like a betrayal even to think about it, but Felix wasn't sure who he was betraying. Was it a disservice to Adama to imagine him so petty? Or did he secretly worry that the Old Man was right? Felix shook off the uncomfortable thoughts. _I know who Gaius Baltar is, _he told himself stubbornly, _he can be trusted._

A specialist he'd spoken to perhaps once in his life pulled Felix into a bone-crunching hug. The lieutenant forced himself to laugh at some joke the well-wisher told him without really hearing the man. He was the first reveler Gaeta had seen since making his way onto this deck. Felix guessed that the poor fellow was too drunk to realize where he was. Once he'd extricated himself and made certain that the man, though inebriated, was not in immediate danger of passing out, Felix left him, rounded a corner, and stopped in front of a clearly labeled hatch.

He swallowed. His hands shook as he combed his fingers through hair that was too short to need it, tugged and fussed with a uniform that already fit like a glove. Finally, chiding himself on his reluctance, he raised a hand to knock three times on the hatch. After a moment, a muffled voice growled "Come in."

Felix pushed the hatch open. He was not surprised that there was no trace of cheer in the Admiral's softly lit quarters. The chambers were a bit disorderly—stacks of papers were strewn across several surfaces—but other than that they looked as they always had. This impression was amplified by the old man who sat behind the desk in full uniform, examining reports as if it were any other day. The only sign of the recent excitement was the slight bow to Adama's back as he bent over the topographical studies, the faint shadows behind his wire-rim glasses.

Felix came to attention a half pace from the desk. "You asked to see me, sir?"

Adama looked up, his eyes sharp despite the faint signs of weariness. "Stand easy, Lieutenant. I wanted to discuss this." Felix swallowed as the Old Man pulled a sheet of paper out of his desk. The younger officer immediately recognized it as the letter he himself had written for the Admiral just hours ago. Adama hadn't asked him a question, so Felix stayed silent as the older man scanned the letter. After an uncomfortable moment, the Admiral's eyes met Felix's once again. "I was . . . surprised to see this request, to say the least. The ink's not even dry on Baltar's first executive order, and you're ready to muster out?"

Felix hesitated. "It . . . wasn't a decision I made lightly."

"No, I never imagined it was." Adama removed his reading glasses and skewered Felix with his sharpest gaze. "What did he offer you, Mr. Gaeta?"

"Sir?"

"Baltar. I assume you don't want to go to the surface so you can start a night club. Dr. Baltar must have offered you some kind of position in his administration."

The lieutenant ducked his head slightly.

Adama sighed. "So what's he offering you? Press secretary? Minister of Something-or-other?"

Felix shifted his feet. "Chief of Staff," he muttered.

Adama didn't respond right away. Felix stole glances at his face as the Admiral impassively shuffled papers. He wondered what was going on behind those still eyes. Did they hide scorn? Did the Old Man think Felix was . . . abandoning his post?

"Congratulations," he growled at last, "That's quite a prestigious position. There are probably quite a few civvies pissed at him for passing over them. Good people, some of them—people with years of administrative experience."

Felix looked down. He knew how it must look—like he was ditching a dead-end assignment on a Battlestar for some cushy gig on the surface. How could he explain to Adama that that wasn't what this was about? "Doctor . . . _President _Baltar said he wanted someone with military experience."

"He can have a military advisor any time he wants. Commander Adama advised President Roslin for months without missing a day of duty." Felix arched an eyebrow at that. Adama caught the look and actually quirked a slight smile. "Well, except for the ones he spent in the brig."

"With all respect, sir, I think you've just made my argument for me. Admiral . . . I have a great deal of respect for Apollo and the service he's done for both you and Former-President Roslin, but I think we both know that that won't work in this case. I've been honored to serve under you for almost four years now, but . . . I want to work for the President of the Colonies, and I just can't do it on this ship, especially with . . . recent events."

Adama ran a tired hand through his hair. "It seems you have something to say, Mr. Gaeta. Care to cut through it?"

Felix's hands knotted into fists behind his back. "Sir, the . . . tabulation error."

"That occurred without my knowledge. It was corrected as soon as you brought it to my attention."

"Yes sir, but . . . I hated being in that position. And if I stay on _Galactica _it will happen again. And again, because no one here understands that . . ." Realizing that his voice was rising, Felix locked his jaw shut.

Adama appraised him coolly. "Get a hold of yourself, Lieutenant."

Felix took a steadying breath and continued in a calmer tone. "Sir, the President of the Colonies outranks us all. President Baltar could order me to be his eyes and ears on this ship, to implement his own procedures, even to remove you from command, and I would have to consider it a directive from the Commander-in-Chief. I . . . don't want to be placed in that situation, sir."

"You're picking a side." It took a few tense moments before Gaeta risked a glance at Adama's face. To his relief, a ghost of a smile lingered, looking out of place on his grizzled visage. "Well, I can respect that." He paused. "New Caprica."

"I can do good work there, sir. President Baltar is going to need help setting up infrastructure, working out utilities, ration distribution . . ."

Adama was rummaging in his desk. "You'll be missed in the CIC, Lieutenant; you're one of the most capable officers under my command." He found what he was looking for—a single sheet of plain eight-cornered paper. "But we could end up with a mess down on that mud ball, even with the best leadership and . . . well . . . Lords know Baltar needs all the capable people he can get. I'll feel better just knowing that there's someone on that rock who can make it to the head and back without parental supervision." He signed the form in one quick pen stroke, stood, and offered it to Gaeta along with his hand. "I don't pretend to understand your reasoning, but I won't stand in your way. Congratulations, Mr. Gaeta; full honorable discharge. Best of luck in all your endeavors."

For a moment, Felix could only stare. Then, he hurried to accept the paper and shake the Admiral's hand. "Thank you, sir . . ."

_TBC_


	3. Home

Felix tried to focus on the fried wiring in front of him and tune out the whispers. They'd been spreading through the CIC for almost an hour, despite Tigh's expulsion. The words still rang in Felix's ears. _Turn coat . . . Toaster-lover . . . _It wasn't just in his head, either. Tigh wasn't the only member of the CIC crew who'd seen too much New Caprican dirt. Felix could feel their gazes on him, their silent accusations. _Collaborator, _those eyes murmured, _collaborator . . ._

"How are the repairs coming, Mr. Gaeta?"

Felix's head snapped up at the familiar, barking voice. "I'm about done, Admiral." He twisted the last wire into place, toggled the switch, and sighed in relief when the board lit green. Reaching for a screwdriver, he clicked the access panel back into place and secured it. "That should act as a stopgap for the time being, but you should see about having the entire system overhauled as soon as time and resources permit."

Adama nodded, his eyes focused not on the malfunctioning communications systems, but on his weary, rag-tag crew. Felix breathed a sigh of relief. At least they didn't dare stare with the Admiral's bespeckled eyes on them. The Old Man's voice was soft. "Walk with me, Mr. Gaeta. Mr. Agathon, you have the deck." His brow furrowed in confusion, Felix followed the Admiral out of the room and down the corridor.

The Old Man didn't speak. His steps, though measured, seemed somehow aimless. After a moment, Felix cleared his throat. "I've been assigned temporary housing on the starboard hangar deck. If the comm. system goes on the fritz again, I'd be glad to take a look."

Adama grunted. "Refugee quarters, huh?"

"Ah, yes sir."

"Could be a bit inconvenient, sending someone all the way down there just to get you to fix a short."

"I suppose I could request a transfer to a closer housing block."

"I think that's a good idea. In fact, I had one in mind."

"Where's that, sir?"

Adama stopped and turned to face Felix. "Officers' Duty Locker."

Felix breathed a sigh and looked away. "Sir, I'm pretty sure it's called that because it's reserved for Colonial Officers."

Adama's expression didn't change. "Put the uniform back on."

Felix tugged at the worn collar of his dark, civilian jacket. "I was fully discharged, sir."

"I need experienced officers."

"You have a whole slew from _Pegasus _climbing the walls."

"I need good ones."

"Sir . . ." Felix ran a hand through hair that had grown long and unkempt, "Tigh's line of thinking isn't going to change just because I put a uniform back on. And he's not the only one . . ."

"You think I don't know that?" Felix stopped at the sharp tone in the Admiral's voice. After a moment, he continued in a calmer vein. "I personally apologize for Colonel Tigh's actions today. They were inexcusable, especially for an officer. But I can't change his mind about you. Only you can do that." He paused. "Show up every day. Do your job. It's time to get up off the mat, Mr. Gaeta."

"I get what you're saying, I really do, it's just . . ." Felix blinked, trying valiantly to get control of himself.

"It's just that you share that line of thinking too; you think you collaborated."

Felix knew his silence was assent enough.

Adama sighed. "It's been a long four months, Mr. Gaeta. And all of us—every single one of us—have had to do something we're not proud of. We left people behind. We did what was necessary to survive. You survived. You don't have to answer to anyone." The Admiral reached into his pocket and drew out a pair of Lieutenant's pins. "All you had to do was pull yourself out of that hellhole and come home."

Willing his hand not to shake, Felix accepted the insignia. "Thank you, sir."

Adama only nodded. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a ship to run."

As the Admiral turned to go, Felix called out "Sir?" Adama turned. "How can you know—really know—that I didn't collaborate?"

To his surprise, Adama laughed. "You? A Cylon lover? How dumb do you think I am, Mr. Gaeta?"

Felix forced a smile.

_TBC_


	4. Orders

The Admiral's quarters were as dim as ever and more cluttered than ever before. The Admiral himself sat behind the desk with his uniform unbuttoned, running his hand through a day's worth of stubble as he studied the week's reports.

Felix came to attention before the desk. "You wanted to talk to me, sir?"

Adama looked up wearily. "Sit down, Mr. Gaeta."

Felix hesitantly sat.

Adama leaned forward, his broad shoulders hunched. "I have a mission for you. It's classified and highly dangerous."

Felix took a breath. Those weren't words the average CIC officer heard too often. "Classified?"

"I'm refurbishing a ship and trying to put together a crew. Its mission is to scout the outlying systems looking for evidence of Earth that we might have missed."

Felix kept his face carefully blank. "What about the work I've been doing on the Eye of Jupiter map?"

The Old Man nodded absently. "Good work—solid work. The bulk of the fleet will continue to follow those coordinates and rendezvous with the _Demetrius _in one month's time."

"The _Demetrius? _That's a sewage treatment ship!"

"Which is why it probably won't be missed. She may stink, but the ship's got a good engine and a much longer range than the Raptors."

"So, what, we're just supposed to go chase our tails for a month in a latrine ship and then . . ." Adama's glare stopped him. Felix took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Though he had a sinking feeling he knew what the answer would be, he had to ask "And who will be commanding this . . . classified mission?"

The Old Man looked down at his desk, where he was cleaning his glasses with a white handkerchief. "Kara Thrace will command."

Felix looked away and tugged angrily at the worn sleeves of his threadbare uniform. His voice was tight. "I thought it was decided that Captain Thrace's . . . beliefs concerning Earth were suspect."

"Suspect maybe. Invalid, no. Mr. Gaeta, if there's a chance—even the slightest chance—that she's telling the truth, we can't afford _not _to believe her."

_I can. _It's on the tip of his tongue. Felix stops himself in the nick of time. "Has the President signed off on this . . . mission?"

"I have President Roslin's full support in military issues."

Felix almost rolled his eyes. "You really think this will work? You think Starbuck can get a crew to follow her after everything—"

Again, Adama's glare stops him in his tracks. "I think that _you _wear a uniform, Mr. Gaeta. As such, I expect you to go where you're ordered to go, follow who you're ordered to follow."

Felix tried to force the anger down. He really did. But somehow, he couldn't let Adama just kick him off the _Galactica _so easily. "May I say something, sir?"

The Admiral put his spectacles aside. "Shoot."

Felix swallowed. "You've lost perspective. You're letting your personal feelings for Captain Thrace blind you to threat she poses to this ship and her crew." Felix couldn't quite believe he'd said it. He resisted the urge to screw his eyes shut as he waited for the hammer to fall.

Adama stared at him, his face inscrutable. Felix met his gaze as steadily as he could. It was the Admiral who looked away. "Maybe I have lost perspective. In that case, it's a good thing I have you."

Felix blinked. "Please don't mock me, sir."

"I'm serious, Lieutenant. Commanders need good officers who will tell them when they've lost sight of the mission. That's why you're going on the _Demetrius._" Adama pulled a folder from his top drawer and offered it to Felix. "The rest of the crew is made up of pilots, mostly. Kara trained quite a few of them herself. I'm trusting them to follow her lead. I'm trusting _you _to remember the mission parameters and remind her to toe the line. Helo is going as XO, but he needs to know that he can count on someone in the crew. Are you that man, Mr. Gaeta?"

Felix sighed as he stared at the file in his hands. "I'll do my best. Sir."

_TBC_


	5. Equivocation

Pain. He'd been standing in the Admiral's quarters for almost an hour, and the cap of his prosthetic leg was rubbing his skin raw. Bracing himself carefully with his crutch, Felix leaned down to rub the scarred stump gingerly. The two Marine guards had their rifles trained on him in an instant, as if they expected him to pull a sidearm out of his peg leg. Felix glared at them with all the heat he could muster.

A soft noise drew his attention to the hatch. Admiral Adama stepped through, twin fires smoldering in his eyes. For a moment, he just stared at Felix. Then he nodded to the two guards. "Leave us." The Marines hesitated, clearly uneasy about leaving their Admiral alone with the dangerous mutineer. Adama's jaw clenched. "Don't make me repeat myself." The two left without a word.

Adama strode past Felix without looking at him and came to stand behind his desk. "Sit."

Felix took a few awkward steps forward. It seemed wrong, somehow; the accused should stand, face charges—that was how it was done . . . frak how it was done; his leg hurt. He eased himself carefully into one of the chairs in front of Adama's desk.

Adama remained standing. Pulling a small tape recorder from a drawer, he set it to record. "This isn't a trial," he said at last. The Admiral slowly sat down. "As an Admiral in a time of war, I have broad authority to enforce military code. But, this isn't justice, and I won't insult our legal system by calling it that."

Felix looked down, feeling the mild sting. He'd meant well in insisting on a trial for Adama. However empty the gesture, a trial was a symbol—a chance for the accused to defend himself. He tried not to analyze the Admiral's reasons for denying him that same empty symbolism.

Admiral Adama pulled his glasses from a desk drawer. "I am here to take your statement, weigh it against those of your crewmates, and determine sentencing for the crime of mutiny in a time of war. Though you have no legal right to counsel, should you wish, an advocate will be made available to speak on your behalf."

Felix stared up at the Admiral. "What if I said I wanted Lee Adama to act as my advocate?"

By mentioning Lee's name, he'd intended to provoke a reaction. It worked. Adama leaned back and his face darkened. In the end, though, his military discipline won out and he kept his voice emotionless. "Lee Adama is not a lawyer."

"He's worked a law case, which gives him more experience than just about anyone else in this fleet. And, I like his record."

Adama stared at Felix, then down at his desk. The anger seemed to drain out of his face. He reached for the phone, and Felix knew he'd been had. He reached out a hand without thinking. "Wait." Adama dropped the phone back on the cradle and stared at Felix. The younger officer sighed. "There's no need to drag Apollo into this. I don't need an advocate."

Adama slowly put his glasses on and opened a file. "Mr. Zarek has already confessed to crimes of treason, murder, and inciting mutiny aboard a military vessel. The other mutineers are being held on charges, pending the outcome of this hearing. Your actions in overpowering your superior officers and taking command by force were widely seen and well documented, so I won't waste time on those. More troubling than those are your attacks on the civilian government. Were you aware beforehand of the plot to kill the Quorum?"

"I wouldn't call it a plot . . . but no, I was not aware."

"Did you participate in the slayings?"

"No."

"When did you become aware of them?"

"When Mr. Zarek escorted me into the council chambers a few minutes after it happened."

"But you did not at that time act to halt Zarek's ascent to power?"

"No."

"Were you aware beforehand of the plot to kill Representative Adama?"

"The _what?"_

"Were you aware beforehand of the plot to remove all twelve Quorum Representatives from power?"

"He . . . told me it might be necessary. Yes."

"Did you of your own volition order the Air Patrol to fire on a friendly Raptor carrying the President of the Twelve Colonies?"

And there it was, Felix thought staring down at his interlaced hands. Rim-shot sunk, as Starbuck would say. Felix Gaeta is a traitor.

He looked up and met Adama's gaze steadily. "Yes."

For long moments, the Admiral just stared at Felix. He removed his spectacles and placed them carefully on the edge of the desk. Without the thin pieces of glass obscuring them, Adama's eyes were even more intense.

Then he stood, without a word, and turned away from Felix to stare at the blank bulkhead. Felix stared at his back, waiting for the hammer to fall, hoping the Admiral wouldn't take too long.

"Mr. Gaeta," Superficially, Adama's voice did not change. Only the slightly clipped words revealed his growing agitation. "Did Mr. Zarek approach you to incite this mutiny?"

Felix blinked. "Sir, I just said . . ."

"I know frakkin' well what you just said! Answer the question."

Felix's jaw clenched. "No. I approached him."

"Did he attempt to utilize his authority as Vice President to legitimize what he was asking you to do?"

"No."

"Did he attempt to confuse you with regard to command structure or your duties on this ship?"

"No."

"Did he threaten your life or that of your crewmates if you refused to help him?"

"No."

"Did he lead you to believe that your crewmates would be in mortal danger if you did not do as he asked?"

"No."

"Did he attempt any kind of extortion?"

"No."

"Did he try to blackmail you? Dammit, Felix, I'm running out of reasons to spare your life!"

"Spare my . . . what the hell?" At moments like these, Felix really regretted his disability. Instead of springing to his feet, he settled for leaning forward and drilling a hole in the back of Adama's uniform. "That's what this is about? You're looking for me to take some kind of cop out? Pin everything on Zarek?"

"He's a terrorist and a rabble rouser. He's had it in for this ship since day one."

"He also happened to be _right."_

"This wasn't about right or wrong. This was about Tom Zarek turning my officers against me—just because he could."

In a saner time, Felix would have put as much distance as possible between himself and that tone of voice—preferably several decks. Now, he merely sat straighter and crossed his arms over his chest. His voice was chilly. "I'm sorry you feel that way. Because for me this has been about _right _and _wrong _and nothing else. The alliance with the Cylons was _wrong. _Boarding ships at gunpoint for exercising their legal rights was _wrong._" Felix stopped and stared down at his hands. He continued more softly. "Leading a violent insurrection was wrong. Attempting to have you executed was wrong. The assassination of the Quorum was wrong." Felix struggled to keep his voice steady. "The sum of all those wrongs is called 'high treason.' And that, Admiral Adama, is why I'm sitting here now, not because of anything Tom Zarek said. At least respect me enough to acknowledge that."

Adama finally turned to face him. Incredulity was beginning to mix with the rage in his eyes. "Do you _want _to die?"

_Now there's an interesting question . . . _No Earth, no hope, the ship was coming to pieces all around them, and yet . . . "I want the world to make sense." Felix stared fixedly at a coffee stain on Adama's desk. "The world's upside down—has been for a long time. Nobody knows where they stand or who the enemy is or what the frak we're doing out here. Officers mutiny, they pay the price; that makes sense. Ask yourself—if things had been different, would you want me to 'spare' you? To remain a prisoner on your own ship, kept alive only by _my _pity? I don't want to die . . . but no more amnesty, no more equivocation. Please, I just can't take it anymore."

Felix was sure that this would finally push the Admiral over the edge—that the gloves would come off, the professionalism vanish, and Adama would release the loathing that Felix knew was there, right beneath the surface. He waited. He held his breath.

Adama swayed slightly. He gripped the edge of the desk for support. He sat slowly as if he were carrying a great burden—as if he were very old. "Felix Gaeta," His voice was drained of all emotion. Just a husk was left. Nothing more. "Having been found guilty of treason and mutiny in a time of war, you are hereby sentenced to death by firing squad at 0800 tomorrow. And may the Lords of Kobol protect your soul."

Felix just sat there. He'd thought he would feel different, officially being one of the walking dead. His leg still hurt. He was still bone-weary. His chest still ached with a hollowness he could not explain. "What about the ones who followed me?" He heard himself say.

Adama ran a hand over his face. Felix wondered if the Admiral could possibly be as tired as he was. "Discharges for most of them, brig time for some. You'll forgive me the equivocation, but I just can't do it anymore."

"I'm glad. There's been enough killing."

"Too much." The Admiral looked at him, and Felix saw pure despair in his eyes. "That frakkin' planet."

"Yeah."

"Do you regret any of it?"

Felix looked away, trying to distract himself by rubbing his scarred stump. "Do you?"

The Old Man bowed his head.

_TBC_


	6. Carried

Step. _Pain. _ Move the crutch. Swing the prosthetic. Step. _Pain. _

The _Galactica's_ corridors are so familiar. Every bolt and spot of rust feels like an old friend. It's funny how he never noticed them being so long before.

Tom Zarek walks in front of him, his hands secured behind his back. The revolutionary hasn't said a word since the guards brought them both out of their cells.

Dr. Baltar follows off to one side, beyond the half-dozen Marines escorting them. Gaius is wringing his hands, his watery eyes darting from side to side as he mutters softly to himself. Felix notes with mild amusement that both condemned men are calmer than Gaius Baltar.

The prosthetic leg chafes at Felix's stump. He pauses and tries to tug it into a more comfortable position. A Marine gives him a sharp prod with the muzzle of his rifle, nearly knocking him off-balance. Felix staggers forward and tries to forget about the pain. It won't hurt for much longer.

The launch tube. Two figures stand waiting. As the little company draws close, Felix realizes it's the Adamas. Lee's brow is furrowed in what could be anything from simple tension to open fury. The Admiral's face is stony—expressionless as always. The pain Felix saw last night has dimmed to a mere glimmer in those silent blue eyes, invisible except to those who know him best.

They come to a halt a few paces from the Admiral. Felix cranes past the guards to peer into the launch tube. Just as he expected, two metal chairs sit bolted to the floor a few meters away from a white painted line. A textbook perfect execution setup. Felix glances at the Marines around him. Six of them. Three each. He tries not to do the math, but he just can't stop himself from wondering—calculating firing rate, impact velocity, duration.

How many bullets? How many would it take?

Felix hears Zarek draw a deep breath. To his relief, the other man stays silent. Felix isn't sure he could have handled it if Zarek had tried to use their deaths to make some grandiose statement.

Adama, too, sees no need for words. He gives the Marines a short nod and they move out. Two train their guns on the prisoners. Another two take Zarek by the arms and lead him into the launch tube. The last two wait expectantly.

Felix takes a hesitant step forward. His prosthetic twists and almost comes off. And he makes a decision.

"Frak it." He leans down and twists desperately at the plastic cap. "I don't want to die with this frakking thing on my leg." He hears the note of terror in his own voice, but can do nothing to stop it. The Marines react. He hears the click of releasing safeties and looks up to see four rifles trained on his chest.

He stares at the Marines. They stare back at him.

A grizzled hand suddenly reaches out to grip the barrel of one gun and force it down. The other three Marines slowly lower their own weapons as Bill Adama steps into the small ring they've made around Felix Gaeta.

Felix tries to force the tremor out of his hands. His heart is pounding desperately—trying to fit as many beats as it can into what little time is left.

Adama steps close and puts an arm around Felix steadying him. The metal leg falls to the deck, splitting the solemn silence with a loud, accusatory clatter. Slowly—tentatively—Felix slides one arm over the Admiral's broad shoulders. Adama gives him a moment to regain his balance then takes a tiny step towards the launch tube.

Felix swallowed. Move the crutch. Lean on the other man. Step. No pain. Move the crutch. Repeat. Adama's shoulders rose and fell with each steady breath, and Felix felt his own erratic breathing slow and fall into synchrony. The panic ebbed, flowing away in the grip of that strong arm around him. Felix let the cane fall, leaned his whole weight on Bill Adama's shoulders.

Almost there. A few more steps. Felix knows it's all an illusion. In a moment, he'll sit down in that chair and Adama will leave him. They will once again be the Admiral administering justice and the mutineer paying for his crimes.

But for now—for a few more painless steps—he's just Felix Gaeta of the Battlestar _Galactica _and the Old Man is carrying him, like he always has.

_Fin_


End file.
